


Slow

by Missy



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Casual Sex, F/M, Fuckbuddies, Public Sex, Strip Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-24
Updated: 2011-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-18 15:21:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fiona and Sam blow off some steam after a very long intel-gathering mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow

He all but begs Michael to let him guard Fiona’s cover on their latest mission. Michael rolls his eyes and agrees after a couple of hours of pleading on Sam’s part. “Fine, Sam, take the strip club gig – but you owe me if we get one at a monastery.”

He then spends several centuries watching Fiona cozy up to their target. Day in and day out, until his nerves can’t take it – considering how well Sam usually bears up under tedium, that speaks volumes about the boredom he operated under every day. And Fiona notices and suffers with him; fondly rolling her eyes at his boyish wish to see some kind of action. When one day she announces, at the tail end of their endless surveillance –heavy week that she has a little surprise for him, Sam expects her to hand him nothing more than a frosty six-pack.

He shouldn’t be surprised by an invitation to the VIP room. But then again Sam never has been good at guessing Fiona’s motivations.

Rock music pulsates as Sam steps into the room, picking a table by the door, so that he can keep an eye on their drug dealing ex-spy of a target. That seems less important than what’s happening right before his eyes.

Slowly, slowly she slides up against the pole, rocking her hips in beat to the music, her hair wild around her face and her apple-red lips parted. Her hands rest upon her thighs, sliding the criminally-short black dress up, up, up her thighs.

He starts forgetting that it’s all a cover job when she looks at him that way, predatory, scary, as if she could eat him like a ripe fruit and spit out the pulp.

The dress comes all the way up, slowly, up over the small rise of her hips and the narrow ribcage, her rounded breasts and her bright eyes. There’s a momentary wince as the material catches on her nose – she’s still Fiona, and the notion gladdens him, making him smirk.

Like honey, she oozes toward him, straddling his knees in her panties, her breasts bare. He’s seen plenty of tits in his time; different sizes and shapes and nipple colors. Fiona’s are creamy and untanned, with golden-pink nipples; he tries to reach up to feel them.

He’s pinned down, quick as a flash, and she smiles down at him. “No touching the dancers, Sam. You know that,” she purrs, bending over, stroking his wrists. Nice and sweet and slow. All she’s wearing is a black thong, those stupid cork heels of hers, and a smirk.

She bends backwards and her breasts are in his face. He’s harder than hell. She brushes his cock through his pants by stroking her sex against him.

She’s wet.

He can feel how hot she is, even through his pants, which shows how lost she is in the cover. Not that Sam’s a model citizen-spy right now – his hips are moving in concert with hers.

Her breasts come closer, now within an inch of his lips, her crotch still pressed to his and rocking. Her clever hands go down to his zipper and it sings downward.

“Jesus,” Sam remarks under his breath.

“I didn’t know you were religious,” she teases under her breath. Her hair falls in his face, and he inhales the scent of her – musk and lemon shampoo. Sam is lost as he stares up at her, breathing heavily, watching her move. The rubbing grows more intense; she’s got a hand between them somehow, unzipping him, and he comes free from his boxers. He reaches up and yank her thong aside.

No one is watching them – it’s ebony dark, the color of black velvet everywhere, and he can barely see the dealer they’re tailing. He grunts and sinks into hot softness. Fiona laughs at the sensation, bracing herself on the table with one hand, rubbing her breasts with the other.

“Watch us,” she says, pointing at a mirror several feet away, affixed to a wall beyond the dancing girls. He can see his pale-skinned cock entering and exiting from her sex, the wetness of her, the smooth black wings of the thong to the left of them, her fingers twisting her nipples.

“What are we doing?” he whispers, enthralled, aroused.

“Fucking,” she murmurs against his lips.

He holds back. Considering how overloaded his brain is by the passion of this woman, he considers it an act of herculean proportions. He waits until Fiona goes into a series of short strokes and squeezes her legs shut with a low cry. Her pulsations do him in – she barely pulls him out in time, jerking him with one hand braced on his chest, decorating the underside of the table with his come.

Sam falls back against the seat, panting, and Fiona slumps forward, her hands next to an incongruous paper lantern. She leans in close and wraps her arms around his neck. “He slipped the mircrofilm into that potted plant,” she declares, panting, leaning into his shoulder.

He’d had weirder postcoital conversations in his life. “Oh…” Sam regathers his thoughts. “Is that why you…this?” Sam cleans himself with a napkin, fixes his tie and tries again. “That why you did this?”

She pinches his cheek. “No. But you’re cute when you’re flustered.”

She kisses him where her pinch had landed and walks away, unsteady on those heels, the thong an askew arrow pointing him back to paradise.

THE END


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